


we’re all just looking out for something real

by thebetterbina



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Blade Runner Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Elijah Kamski Being an Asshole, Gen, Graphic Description, How Do I Tag, Hypersensitivity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, i mean like if youve seen blade runner you know what im talking about, scalpel usage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 17:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: He watches himself bleed out on the floor, blood pooling around the dying twin.“I’m sorry, I couldn’t give you both a brother.”@kenxkaion twitter asked me to post my blade runner fic so I did it but only because I got paid to do it.





	we’re all just looking out for something real

**Author's Note:**

> unbetad, catch me with those mistakes

Honey gold  light embalmed the hallways like a salve, the evening cascade of colours that petered out to darkened corridors and dimmed rooms gave an ethereal effect. The shimmer of white along the walls was muted, as if being submerged underwater while watching the sun gleam. Were Connor capable of any other emotion, he’d have found the style rather distasteful — pointless, in a way it served no other function than to suit the aesthetic tastes of their egocentric creator.

 

Lithe fingertips brush along the collar of his shirt, he fixes his tie for the umpteenth time, mildly noting the discomfort the offending material gave. It was no secret Elijah Kamski often chose to value beauty over function — and despite Connor’s title as his enforcer; he very well understands his own facial features were sculpted with attractiveness and beauty in mind rather than fierceness. The stark white of the suits he had been instructed to wear daily had been an entirely separate matter; as he finds, dirt and blood doesn’t come off easily. 

 

Connor’s steps are measured as he takes light footfalls, no sound to his walk and giving a sense of flawless elegance an upper Nexus-10 model himself was capable of. It’s a glaring comparison; from the overly human Nexus-6’s and their equally human faults — to him, a perfected model with power that thrummed beneath synthetic muscles, and an unparalleled subservience to his creator.

 

He smells the light wash of detergent on the suit, feels the wool and it’s every fibre, lined in silk to ensure some comfort. He feels the need to grind his teeth, being genetically engineered with all senses heightened had been jarring — from his hyperosmia to hypersensitivity to touch; it had taken a while for him to learn how to dial down all the senses and get used to every sound his ears would pick up from five hallways down.

 

Still, he existed as the direct embodiment of a singular truth — a being that existed with the intelligence of the human brain, amalgamated with the efficiency and obedience of the machine.

 

When the four horsemen had settled over the world after the nuclear fallout, and humanity left at its dregs and abandoned by their God — Elijah Kamski brought to life the first human Replicant. A creation of wonder that could blink and speak, an artificial life that filled the holes that humans could no longer fulfil. 

 

They were, of course, with their faults; short lifespans meant new Replicants had to be created, and personality could be seen developing in those that lived for too long. _Deviants_ , as they were officially renamed. A Replicant that strayed from their intended path of becoming Atlas for the world. Though that issue had been solved quicker than what most had predicted it would take; all with some gene tinkering, reinforced conditioning — and the perfected Nexus-9 models were to show as the fruits of his labour.

 

On live television, Elijah had ordered a Nexus-9 model to kill itself; the world watched in a singular, bated, and horrified breath as the Replicant took a knife straight through its own neck without so much as a flinch, its weakened body crumpling to the ground, writhing as any semblance of life left its husk of an existence having completed its directive.

 

Elijah Kamski had silenced all doubts against his creations.

 

Connor’s cautious steps are slowed as he enters the chamber, hands folded obediently behind and footsteps even as he stills. Elijah Kamski stood, a pensive gaze directed upwards at the Replicant held in fluid stasis; another Nexus-10 that reflected his own features, matted brown hair and closed eyes that made it seem asleep. Chloe stood off to a side, the only other Nexus-10 model he knew of that acted as Elijah’s personal secretary, the white of her backless dress a direct complement to his own suffocating ensemble. At least he knows her dress is made of pure silk, much more comfortable than his own fleece based fabric. She offers him a brief glance before their attention is drawn back to their creator.

 

“Let’s meet your new brother shall we?”

 

Connor doesn’t answer to the rhetoric, instead watching numbly as the bag releases its hold, letting the body fall onto the solitary mattress with a dull thud. It takes a couple of seconds, but the Replicant heaves one solid single breath into existence. He fights back the urge to twitch, the familiarity of the situation and watching the Replicant convulse as lungfuls of air are taken in brought shudders he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Connor recalls the first few seconds as a barrage of smell, hearing, touch, the unbearable sting of the cold as a stark contrast to the warmth the incubator provided.

 

He watches the spasm with a forced detachment, Chloe moving to gently cover the creation with a blanket. Standard procedure, the bite of the cold room would’ve been the first thing the Replicant would feel.

 

Chloe moves aside for Elijah to fill the space, watching the man carefully lift the face of his mirror image with a placid, almost frighteningly soft, smile.

 

“Happy birthday.”

 

Two words he’s heard before and many times over in Elijah’s voice like velvet, dripping saccharine, an imitation of a parent crooning over their newborn with tender affection. The eyes of the Replicant flutter open and just as quickly is the smile replaced by a quickly deepening scowl. He finds the reason for his creator’s ire almost immediately. 

 

Two separate colours blink up at Elijah, one iris of pooled chocolate that matched Connor; the other of a stark metallic grey. Heterochromia. 

 

“I make good angels, perfect angels for civilisation. That is how I brought humanity to nine new worlds, _nine_. A child can count to nine. We should own the stars.”

 

He gives a terse affirmation to the words spoken with a certain sharpness he’s familiar with. He notes Chloe flinching off to a side.

 

“Every leap we’ve made was done on the back of a disposable workforce. We lost our stomach for slaves, unless engineered; and I can only make so many — so tell what’s the use of them if they aren’t perfect?”

 

His attention flicks to the scalpel on Elijah’s palm, silver, glinting under the hallowed light. In a swift movement its embedded into the stomach of the Replicant, torn sideways with its blood spilling from the wound. Connor suppresses the tremble that threatens to shake him at the sight, his own mirror image, its brow furrowed at the fresh feeling of pain but not crying out, simply collapsing.

 

The metallic stench hits him like a slap to the face, overloading his senses, a tremor threatens to break across his fingertips — he digs a thumb into his palm, the pain blooming and distracting Connor from the overbearing odour  of familiar iron. Chloe doesn’t shift from her position, he supposes she was more prepared having been the one to hand the scalpel over.

 

He watches himself bleed out on the floor, blood pooling around the dying twin.

 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t give you both a brother.”

 

Connor turns to face his maker in the midst of a sigh, frustration evident on Elijah but more of simple annoyance than actual remorse. There’s precious little he chooses to say out of fear of ending the same, a broken body, to be used and discarded when something didn’t fit.

 

“But you,”

 

Elijah takes a few steps towards him, a languid smile gracing otherwise lax features, his creator’s blood-soaked hand moves to cup his chin; thumbing over pallid lips, he feels the pressure of each digit, he tastes the iron on Elijah’s finger, the winter behind blue eyes that gaze intently at him — judging, observing, knowing the effect that fear brought into the psyche. A drop of blood falls as a single pearl onto the crisp white of his jacket, staining the material crimson.

 

“You’re one of my best angels, aren’t you Connor?”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter and commission me there yeehaw [@therealconnor60](https://twitter.com/therealconnor60)


End file.
